by Jamie Wang
Today is Sunday, so you need to tiptoe when walking around.
My local friend says, on my first Sunday morning in this city,
I ponder why, tiptoe in a city that never sleeps.
Then I see them, see them and their homes.
On the footbridges, under the buildings, blocked roads, city parks.
Thousands of them, sitting in their homes, home built just for today.
Cardboard walls, not even to my knees.
One after another, one square meter overflown with four,
one after another, filled up my eyes.
So I tiptoe, so not to trip over their shoes, or the umbrella roofs or the residents at their ease.
They sit low, not even up to my knees.
Putting on make up, doing mani and pedi, chatting, picnicking, food prepared not for others but for themselves, or sleeping, curling like an open ‘c”, like the tired babies they look after for others, everyday but not today.
Why are they everywhere, what are they saying?
Sundays they can’t stay at the place where they serve, not allowed. I don’t know what they are talking. Do not understand and do not matter much. They seem content, that I can tell, answers my friend.
I tiptoe, in this city.
I raise my head, blinded by the buildings, tall and narrow.
I look down, there they are, filled up my eyes, low and low.
I feel weary, no more tiptoeing.
Give me that potion, from the wonderland, so I can shrink, become small, so I can sit low. Be with them, hear them, tiptoe among their mutism.